


Devotion Devours

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 23:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10398114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: It is a cruel joke, woven by that foul whore Fate--a Malfoy and a Potter, bound together through the magic of a mutual love potion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Nayyirah Waheed and Warsan Shire are fabulous poets and I totally took pieces of their work for this, even though this subject matter is probably not what they intended. Buy all their things, seriously! I own none of their words (just to clarify). I also do not own Harry Potter or anything, really, my car isn't even mine yet! 
> 
> Rhysenn wrote Irresistible Poison; I’d been reading fanfiction for a couple of years, but when I was fourteen that was the one that dragged me into the Harry/Draco fandom and I haven’t stopped being here. I might come and go, but I always come back <3 Even though I’ve grown in how I see the dynamic of Harry/Draco; that is the fic that made me first believe. 
> 
> So, in honour of that fic, I wanted to write a fic with the same plot element: Love Potion. 
> 
> My huge thankyou goes to the H/D Writers Community. Where I met my best, most enthusiastic supporters, who filled dark days with laugher and put the sparkle of artistic inspiration back in my life. Most have trickled off into various parts of the internet, and some have become the friends who I hope to never lose, but all of them have a dear place in my heart. On my walls their various cards and postcards that came through the years--the ones I see when I wake and smile. <3333 Everything I write, in some way, I always write for them. Rike, LH, TGI, Kneazley, Writ, Kat, and all of you really! Thank you <33333
> 
> SmirkingCat who was the shining light in the dark and brought me back into the fold. You're a darling <33333
> 
> And most importantly, Curi--CuriouslyFic is always a huge inspiration, fills me with feels, and is the most excellent friend for any kind of conversation. If I ever write a real book Curi’s getting a whole page of dedication, maybe a chapter. For real, because Curi takes my mad musings and makes them magic. Curi also makes me believe. In all things. Because that is Curi’s pure magic. <333333333

 

 

_ I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; _

_ On my face they are still together.  _

  
  


Harry:

 

“You wear your mother's eyes in your father’s face,” Aunt Petunia tells Harry, during a rare visit, after a half bottle of gin sloshes in her belly. Her smile is a brittle thing, full of sorrows she can never quite bring herself to speak, but she spits the rage. Anger spun from hurt is Aunt Petunia’s weapon--her armor of choice--and she hurls acid off her tongue the way circus performers throw knives. Careless, yet, elegant. 

 

Harry’s response is the sound the bottle makes as he lifts it from the wood of her table, and then the clink of glass on glass when he refills her poison. 

 

“I'm alone, you know,” her words never slur. Aunt Petunia speaks slower, more carefully, when she's in the oblivion of her anguish. “Dudley never visits, and Vernon is dead--gone--gone, gone, gone.” Her eyes are clear when she lifts them to his, and Harry notices they are shaped similarly to his own. It creates a sense of disquiet in him to know there are similarities between himself and the substitute mother who denied him. “You can pull him from death, can’t you?” 

 

Again, he says nothing in response and Aunt Petunia weeps. Great body-wracking sobs that rattle the table, and the contents upon it. Her face is not beautiful when she cries; flesh red and twisted as if she is being suffocated by the consuming grief. As she drowns in her misery Harry reaches into his pocket, retrieving a small phial that he silently uncorks. The thin lip of the glass Harry presses against her wet chin, where the labour of her eyes runs off the edge, and he catches four drops. His face is close enough to smell the thick scent of gin on her breath, and beneath that the salt of her anguish mingles with her subtle, yet expensive, lavender soap. “They died for you,” she whispers, her eyes having a moment of clarity, “They died for you, and the only memory you'll ever have of them can be found in the mirror.” 

 

Harry doesn't remind Aunt Petunia that her son, too, wears his parents on his face, and that he too must live with the guilt of his father’s demise and his mother’s sorrow. He could hurt her. Aunt Petunia deserves no kindnesses from Harry, but he is not a boy any longer. Revenge will give him no peace. 

 

“Com’on then,” he says instead, “Let's get you into bed.” 

  
  


Draco:

 

“I see nothing of my sister in you.” These are the first words his Aunt Andromeda speaks to Draco. “You are your wretched father’s son.” 

 

If he were still a boy Draco would vehemently defend his father, but as it stands he is a man and he knows Lucius is not a human worth defending. So Draco stands, silent, in the cold winter of Diagon Alley, letting snow melt upon his hair while he casts his eyes to his boot covered feet. “Cissy should’ve married Sirius,” Andromeda is impassioned even if her face is too thin and her skin too sallow--there is life still in her despite the look of death that swallows her frail form. “Maybe then she’d have had a chance at life.” 

 

Remembering Mother’s death stings, like a thin cut that burns from the light touch of air, and though it is not a gaping wound Draco knows it is an abrasion that will never heal. Draco is not convinced his mother would have been better off with her mad cousin; the Black family is shrouded in curse, all of them dying in the end. Even Andromeda, the last of their name, is fading fast. She seems a husk of a woman, thin and trembling like the last leaf feebly clinging to the vine after winter’s first freeze. 

 

“Dora, too,” she whispers, to herself, a sheen of emotion brightening her dull grey eyes, “Dora was doomed in love.” Beside her the child Draco had not previously noticed pulls at her skirt, his eyes as grey as a cold winter morning--the same colour of Draco’s and Draco’s mother’s. “You are all that remains of a cursed love.” Draco is not sure if she is speaking to him or the boy, but he knows well that her words apply to them both. He’s heard of his cousin’s son; the one born from her union with a werewolf. Teddy Lupin, the child whose parents were stolen by war. He’s Potter’s life story wearing Draco’s eyes and mouth, Narcissa’s nose and chin, and the Black family’s dark hair. Draco wants to tell his aunt that she couldn’t be more wrong about Draco’s face--he is more his mother’s than he will ever be Lucius’s. 

 

_ The poor, wretched beast child, _ Draco thinks instead of speaking, and as he looks at the small boy he feels pity. He used to think if he ever beheld this abomination of his blood that he would look upon the child with disgust and hatred, but Draco is too old for hatred--hatred makes him tired.   

  
  


_ Visit him on a Tuesday and he will  _

_ describe _

_ The body of every woman he could  _

_ not save.  _

 

 

Harry:

 

“He is yours now,” Ron’s voice cuts through the white noise filling Harry’s head. 

 

Aware, he glances about the sombre room. Taking note of all the mourning faces that are attached to bodies wrapped in black finery. Nothing is fine about this day. It is shit, as Harry has ever seen shit, and if he could he would undo the dark cloud that hangs over them all. That is a force beyond his control, unfortunately, and Harry hates feeling so powerless. 

 

He mastered Death, once, and still cannot stop Death from reaping those he wants to save. On rare nights, when he is alone to his thoughts, Harry wonders if this is how the son of God felt when he first knew that not all mortal souls could be saved in his sacrifice. 

 

“Harry,” Hermione calls to him, voice soft--careful like one would be with a wild animal. He knows then his silence has dragged on for too long. They are waiting for his reply. Every set of sad eyes rests on him, and no matter how the years have passed the sensation takes Harry back to that hall; back to that battle he relives every night in his sleep. 

 

“Perhaps he should stay with us,” Molly ventures, tentative, when Harry continues not to speak. “Until you’ve had time to get everything in order.” The implication that Number Twelve is unfit for a child hangs, unspoken, in the air above the long table they’ve all gathered around. Yet, Harry does not rise to the provocation. Merely waves a disinterested hand to say that, yes, indeed Molly should take Teddy. 

 

Someone releases a disappointed sigh, but Harry doesn’t bother to see who--he’s a feeling it’s Ron. There’s a growing discontent between them. Cracks in a once solid foundation called brotherhood; Harry knows that Ron is growing up, into the man he always knew he would be while Harry stagnates behind. There’s an increasing frustration in Ron, and it builds because Ron doesn’t understand why Harry cannot move on from the war. 

 

Harry’s whole life has been war; before conception and even after his momentary death his life has remained war.  _ The war is over _ . Ron tells him, over and over and over, but for Harry the war lives in the fractured places of his fraying mind. 

 

Ron has Hermione, has childhood dreams he’s made realities--career, wife,  _ home _ . Harry’s only ever had the shadow of Voldemort hovering on him, and the shadow never lifted from his soul. He wears it now--woven into a cloak along with regret and disappointment.    

 

Ginny glances away from him when he looks up, and he feels a mild sting of self-loathing for hurting her. Harry is nothing a woman needs; he could only bring grief and broken dreams to a marriage. Another thing to add to the list of expectations he’s failed.

  
  


Draco: 

 

_ The war is over.  _ Greg tells him often enough, and reminds him now as they stand over Pansy’s grave. Draco doesn’t tell Greg that the war will never be over. The clout of Voldemort’s hatred lives on in their minds, a disease that haunts until death--a plague Pansy was unable to escape. 

 

“How did she go,” is what Draco finally asks, when it is just the two of them wiping the dirt from their hands. Pansy’s minimal family having already retreated to their sombre gathering at Pansy’s childhood home. 

 

“Poison, I think,” Greg frowns, sniffing and wiping at the moisture in his beady eyes. “Her cousin said the maid found her. She was wrapped in pearls and silk, sprawled across her bed.” 

 

The slight smile Draco wears is more grim than glee, but he finds a tiny amount of amusement in the dramatics that Pansy managed until the end. “That’s like her,” he responds, tucking his handkerchief back into his suit pocket, after a silent cleansing spell. 

 

“She was broken up over you, mate,” Greg confesses, when the silence grows too still. Uncomfortable with words they can’t bring themselves to speak.  

 

“I never meant to hurt her,” Draco assures, guilt filling him regardless of the truth in his words. “I just cannot justify bringing all that I am to any woman.” 

 

“I know,” Greg claps him on the shoulder, “This wasn’t your fault.” Draco isn’t so sure, but he appreciates the sentiment, and feels a lump form in his throat when Greg adds, “The war is over, but for some of us it never ended.” He gestures with a meaty hand at the fresh grave, “Pansy never escaped the war, Draco. Don’t wind up like her.” It’s the closest thing to a plea Draco’s ever heard fall from Gregory Goyle’s tongue. 

  
  


_ No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark _

  
  


Harry:

 

Number Twelve is a hoover that sucks all light from a person. There is no hope in her walls that are caked with the reminders of her dead. Harry hates Grimmauld Place, and yet he finds comfort in the tragedies that surround him. The demise of the Black family etched into decaying wallpaper that is streaked and warped with water stains; as if someone tried to wash away the memories, but failed because they are too deeply seared to be erased. 

 

Harry’s fingers dig into the names, trace the carvings of intricate limbs that connect one person to the next, he lingers at Sirius’s blast mark. Drunk on the hopes of what could have been--the chance for a father--only to be reminded by the surly house-elf, Kreacher, that Sirius returned to dust long ago. The bottle of whiskey rattles to the grimy hardwood floor, reviving a small puddle of the wood--polishing it with faux cleanliness, recalling to the floor a past long lost. A time when this home was sparkling and grand, not the rotting shell that Harry has chosen to die within. He doesn’t bother telling Kreacher to clean his mess; what harm does another spill bring? The house is in ruins regardless. 

 

Kreacher traces the scar that remains where Andromeda’s name once was. “My Mistress’s family has gone.” 

 

Turning back Harry’s eye catches on a name that remains-- _ Draco Malfoy _ \--and he sucks in a breath. Teddy isn’t the last of Sirius’s line. Something blooms in his chest; Harry is not foolish enough to believe it is hope, because any form of expectation left him long ago. 

 

“I’ll be in the library, Kreacher, bring tea and a Pepper Up.” 

 

“Yes, my master.” Kreacher bows away, with a soft crack, and Harry moves sluggishly in the direction of the library. The dust is thickest here, it clings to the leather spines--most of which are blank. So ancient and full of black magic that they lack titles. Harry lifts one from its resting place on the shelf and opens it in the middle. The pages are brittle, so thin he’s afraid they will turn to dust at the slightest provocation. It is a book on insidious flora and fauna, and isn’t what Harry’s seeking so he gingerly sets it back on the shelf from which it came--disturbing more of the grime. He snaps his fingers, muttering, “Accio.” Various texts float down from the highest shelves, and Harry sets them aside, on the desk with an inlay that he’s half certain is the hide of a human. Kreacher enters the room, as Harry sits in the faded indigo wingback, carrying the tray of tea and Pepper Up along with a plate of sandwiches Harry didn’t request. 

 

“I won’t take dinner.” Harry informs his servant, with a wave he adds, “Leave me, go enjoy your sleep.” 

 

“Yes, my master.” 

  
  


Draco:

 

Screams live in the mortar that bind these ancient stones; calling to Draco as he wanders, listless, down familiar corridors shadowed in gloom. Home is a strange place. Caging him, more prison than comfort, and Draco wants nothing more than to dismantle the invisible bars. Duty keeps him here; loyal to a line that has given him his height, his arched brow, his broad shoulder--the blood in his veins. A blood that will dry and wither with him when he goes to his grave. So he walks these halls, giving what’s left of himself to these hungry stones. 

 

_ Take it all,  _ his silent plea,  _ fucking have everything.  _ Draco begs for Malfoy Manor to leech what it will from him; wants this land to absorb the last of his  _ great  _ line. He’s the disappointment that ended them all, as Lucius reminded him while he wilted away in his large bed. Their last true patriarch had no strength at the end, but managed to spit in Draco’s face. Call him rotten, labeled him the sum of all regrets. The only saving grace for Draco, at the time, was that his mother had already been laid to rest--returned to the earth too soon, killed by a broken heart. 

 

This family murdered her. 

 

He touches an ornate silver frame, traces the pads of his fingers over the renderings of coiling serpents and flames, a laugh escapes his lips. Broken, weary, hollow. All the portraits, of Malfoys past, left long ago. Their frames stand vacant, further reminding that the gilded world Draco grew up in is gone. Mother’s ballroom caked in dust, the chandelier tarnished and dripping cobwebs--in his mind he can hear the mockery of sound. Playing Mother and Father’s favourite song-- _ Psyché et Eros _ \--the composition that called their bodies closer, melded them on the marbled dance floor, making them appear as one. Memory seizes him; Draco crumples against the wall as he imagines them, dazzling in their finery, Father pulling Mother closer--his hand at the exposed skin of her milk-white back. There is a smile on Lucius’s lips, the one that belongs to Narcissa alone, and it feels more intimate than any kiss Draco has ever witnessed. 

 

He wants to always remember them like this, bowing to the applause of their friends, smiling with genuine affections. Draco hates the flashes that haunt him before sleep. The reminders of the deep, dark circles that looked of painful bruises beneath Mother’s eyes. The brittle, lank hair that hung around Father’s sunken face. The fear that soaked them like pungent, ancient perfume; making Draco’s stomach roil. 

 

Mother’s room is fragrant with mouldered rose petals, that cover the fine carpets like snow, crunching beneath his feet as Draco makes his way to her bed. The white linens muted from neglect and age, but he falls into their musk and pretends that her scent still lingers here--not just the decay.  

  
  


_ A friend. Is someone who supports _

_ Your breath. _

  
  


Harry:

 

His desired potion is found in the centre of crumbling leather bindings, written in inks so old the black has turned the lightest grey. The language is a Latin Harry can hardly understand, but a more recent note, in Sirius’s lovely script, at the bottom of the page, tells him this is his poison.  _ To become someone else.  _

 

_ This is how Harry Potter will die. _

 

“Kreacher,” Harry summons, and a second later the withered elf appears with a bow saying, “Yes, my master?” 

 

“I need you to fetch some things for me,” Harry sounds distracted to himself. Eyes busy scanning the Latin--translating as well as he can as he reads down the list. 

 

“Kreacher can read this for you, Master,” the words startle Harry, and he takes notice of how close Kreacher has come. There is something sharp in his wide smile, filling Harry with a momentary sense of disquiet. 

 

He ignores the sensation, muttering a spell to copy his list of ingredients before he hands the parchment to Kreacher. “I trust you will be discreet.” 

 

“Of course, my master.” 

 

When Kreacher leaves Harry makes his way to the disused basement. In the hall, there is a long table, littered with unopened letters from his friends and surrogate Wizarding family. Harry ignores their words. The wind from his stride knocking some of them to the floor as he makes his way towards the rickety stairs that lead down, to the dank underbelly of Number Twelve. 

 

His cauldron is full of rust, from disuse, and Harry manually scrubs the mess of it away then douses it in a light layer of oil. He starts a fire, setting the flame to low to cure the metal, before stepping over to the cabinet of potion ingredients that look older than Harry. Perhaps older than all of the Weasley children, and he opens the dirty glass doors to peruse them. The hinge squeaks from years of neglect, and a pungent mix of their odours hit him--causing his stomach to roll unpleasantly. 

 

Alarms from the wards alert Harry to a presence, and he glances up from a bottle of cubed dragon’s heart. With a sigh he sets the foggy jar down on his worn workbench, hoping--valiantly--that most of these contents are not expired. 

 

“I’m coming,” Harry thunders as the wards sound again, urgently, as if the person on his stoop is pounding against them. When he opens the door to find Hermione, Harry wagers there’s a good chance she was beating her hands against his magic--desperate to reach him, in more ways than one. “Yes?” 

 

“You won’t let me in,” her brown eyes are unimpressed, and she crosses her arms. Limbs swallowed amongst the vibrant colours of her oversized jumper. Despite the way the knit fabrics hang off of her, Harry can detect the tell-tale swell in her abdomen. 

 

“When were you planning on telling me your happy news?” Harry doesn’t sneer; he’s not one for sneering, but his voice does hold a certain, dangerous edge. 

 

Hermione does not recoil, the way so many others do--instead she invades him, pushes past his door and hisses, “If you were around you would have known.” There is no sympathy in her eyes when she turns them upon him; only a rage that Harry’s rarely seen. This is what he’s done to her, another victim falling to the never ending poison of his touch. To know Harry is to know misery. 

 

“Leave,” he tells her, interrupting whatever it is she’s demanding. Harry knows he’s doing her a kindness, even if it hurts his heart to watch her gaze grow hopeless. 

 

“Harry,” she tries, as a last effort, but the wrenching open of his door is Harry’s reply. “I will come back,” her feeble promise. 

 

_ I’ll already be gone,  _ Harry thinks, and asks a silent forgiveness as he shuts the door, with a heavy finality, behind her.  

  
  


Draco: 

 

Most afternoons Draco sits in morose stillness, staring at the decay that crumbles everything surrounding him--willing it to consume his body. Swift death filling his every thought--lush in his mind at all hours. Pansy, wrapped in silk and pearls, visits him in sleep. Whispering of sweet release. 

 

_ How should I do it? How should I die?  _

 

Death is his constant fantasy. Draco imagines himself choking on poison, drowning in his own blood, fading into cold darkness. 

 

Magic tingles in his skin--pulling him from dangerous imaginings, alerting Draco that an unexpected presence has arrived. Frowning, he stands and makes his way through the dim halls. 

 

A single beam of light falls in from a wound in the ceiling. Casting a bright glow over familiar yellow hair--igniting it like fire. When she turns to face him, Draco finds that she is an angel--avenging yet tender. 

 

“Draco,” his name full of mourning as it rolls off her tongue. “You look like shit.” He’d laugh, except he’s certain his body has forgotten how. 

 

“Astoria,” Draco replies, instead, focusing on what he knows--disappointing others. “I wasn’t expecting visitors. Leave.”

 

She doesn’t, instead Astoria pushes closer--penetrating, like a weed that’s stubborn. The roots of her love digging deep. Draco does not deserve her kindness or her friendship. He is especially undeserving of the salvation she offers, with a metaphorical hand. “Leave,” he tries again, but Astoria doesn’t heed the command.  

 

“I won’t,” she promises, “I cannot abandon you to rust.”  

 

 

_ The wounds have changed me. _

_ I am so soft with scars _

_ My skin breathes and beats stars. _

  
  


Harry: 

 

A black rose blooming beneath the light of a full moon; that is the most difficult ingredient Harry has to find. When he has the coveted rose--crushing its petals, like cold satin on his skin, within his palm--Harry tells Kreacher to fetch his quill and ink. 

 

_ Meet me at Number 12, and I’ll return it to you.  _

 

There’s no reason to bother with a signature, the recipient will know to what he’s alluding, and as he seals the parchment with the seal in the study--the one that bears the Black Family Crest--Harry’s eyes catch on the gleaming length of hawthorn he hasn’t held since he ended a war. 

 

Kreacher leaves tea beside him, but Harry doesn’t touch a drop of it--he’s too busy watching the grandfather clock, frowning at the shadows that flicker across its face while the hours slip slowly by. 

 

Gentle rapping taps against the wards at the early hour of three. Sardonic grin in place, Harry makes his way to Number Twelve’s entrance. “The witching hour, how appropriate,” he mocks when he opens the door, to find Draco Malfoy standing amidst the illumination of moonlight and London’s street lamps. 

 

No humour lights Draco’s face, that is still beautiful despite the deep bruises that shade the skin beneath his grey eyes. With an arch tone he demands, “Where is my wand?” Long, slender fingers extend and Draco holds his palm face up--expecting that Harry will give him Harry’s hard won property that easily. 

 

_ Never.  _

 

“Tea,” he replies in lieu of answering Draco’s question, stepping out of the threshold to allow Malfoy in, “Come, there is a fire to warm your bones.” 

 

“It will be a cold day in hell when I find warmth in your presence,” Draco sneers, turning his nose up as he brushes past Harry. Finding his way to the sitting room, easily, as if he's been here a thousand times before. 

 

“I trust you've been well, Malfoy,” Harry begins, pleasant with his tone, despite the fact his smile is anything but friendly.

 

“Cut the shit, Potter,” the words are pure hiss--thinly veiled hatred dripping off Draco’s tongue like a serpent’s song. “Why am I here, in this God forsaken hovel?” 

 

Harry allows Draco’s wand to fall into his palm, from its hidden spot in his robe’s sleeve, and he does not miss the way Draco’s body winds tight with anticipation. It is a desperate action.  _ Good.  _ With his other hand Harry pulls a phial from his robe’s inner pocket, then sets both the wand and potion on the splintering table between them. 

 

Draco’s spine appears straighter, his flinty eyes narrowing at the dark crimson potion that shimmers within the glass, and with a guarded tone demands, “What is that?” 

 

They are staring, now, measuring each other as they had when they were boys--but this is a different measure. One that searches for far more than the chinks in the opposition’s ego--this assessing gaze is full of a war that still rages between them, one that is more malicious than childhood disdain. 

 

“That is the price you will pay for your wand,” Harry finally answers; his voice soft, bored, never hinting at the glee that fills him. 

 

“It’s the colour of blood,” Draco states, eyes narrowing, “Nothing good is ever that colour.” Through his roundabout protest, Harry notices that Draco isn’t saying ‘no’. 

  
  


Draco:

 

Red clings to the glass, thick and congealing, as Draco swirls it’s contents about--running through his mental list of substances, trying to understand what this could be. After long minutes, he silently admits that he has no clue, and lifts his eyes to find Potter watching him with an intense expression. 

 

“Go on then, Potter,” Draco settles back in his chair, adopting an air of aloofness despite the rabbit thump of his heart, “Tell me what my wand will cost me.” Because Draco is not foolish enough to believe that Potter’s kindness comes free. 

 

Standing, Potter moves, with a grace Draco never thought Potter could possess. Stopping before the fire with his back to Draco. Seeming to search the flames for a sign. Draco doesn’t push him; Potter appears half-mad, his hair a shaggy mob on his head, stubble more of a short beard, clothing in chaotic disarray, and eyes that appear permanently hollow--vacant like a dead man’s. 

 

“This is how you and I are going to die,” is the answer he gives. If Draco was the least bit interested in living he’d have been horrified; as it stands, he watches Potter with an impassive gaze. 

 

“How romantic,” he simpers, “I had no idea you wanted to die with me.” 

 

Potter offers no reply, his gaze still on the flame flickering in the hearth, Draco simmers in discomfort--wishing he could read Potter’s silences. 

 

A withered house-elf hobbles into the room, food steaming on the tray he carries, “Breakfast, my master.” His speech better than most house-elves Draco’s been forced to share proximity with. 

 

“Sunup all ready,” Potter muses, his mouth twisting with a hint of a deranged grin. “Soon, Kreacher,” he whispers to the old elf, “Soon your master will sleep.” 

 

Kreacher bows in reply, and the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck start rising to attention. 

 

Potter sits opposite of Draco, once more, his green eyes flicker to the food on the table between them, but he doesn’t make a move to eat. Instead he indicates that Draco should, “Kreacher’s damn annoying and moody when his food goes to waste.” As he draws a plate closer, Draco realises that Potter’s beard and hair are doing little to hide the emaciated frame he’s covering with large black robes. 

 

The food would be delicious if everything Draco put to his tongue didn’t taste of ash, but even still he eats what’s provided--knowing full well he must go through the motions, even if he does not mean them. 

 

Setting his empty plate back down on the table, Draco looks up to find Potter watching him with an expression of bored curiosity. 

 

“Have you ever wanted to be me, Malfoy?” Potter’s tone is devoid of all feeling, and Draco has a hard time reading the meaning behind such a question. 

 

“Ha,” Draco replies with malice, “What child didn’t want to be you?” 

 

“Me,” Potter is honest and it stops the cruelty that wants to escape Draco’s mouth. “I would give anything to not be me.” 

 

“Anything,” Draco echoes with a considering yet faint tone. 

 

Potter’s chapped lips crack around a wide, sharp smile--the most genuine expression Draco’s seen him wear. “I’d even be you to not be me.” 

 

Firelight glows off the phial settled on the table between them, making the dark crimson contents sparkle--a mockery of a ruby, and Draco is not so stupid that he fails at catching a hint. “It cannot be done,” Draco intones, voice lacking of emotion--staying as unmoved as he can despite the acceleration of his pulse. “Polyjuice potion is as close as any human can come,” Draco reminds, “Even that is not a true body swap.” 

 

“This library is old. I’d reckon it’s even older than yours, and it is full of books so dark I’m surprised the Ministry has not come to collect them,” Potter muses, his grin still more bite than kind. “It’s funny what one can do when one leaves morality behind.” 

 

Draco swallows, unsure if he likes this Potter, this mad creature before him reminds Draco of his dead Aunt Bella. It’s not a similarity he enjoys. 

 

“Why would you want to be me,” Draco finally ventures to ask; the safest question compared to all of the other things he wants to say. He doesn’t trust himself not to drive Potter to rage; Draco’s always had a special talent for pissing Potter off.

 

“No one expects anything of the last Malfoy,” is Potter’s immediate reply.  _ True,  _ even the last Malfoy expects nothing of himself. 

 

“And if I say ‘no’,” he holds Potter’s verdant gaze, unflinching even when Potter’s mouth twists into something that reminds Draco of hatred. 

 

“You owe me, Malfoy,” Potter’s eyes are hard. For long moments he doesn’t seem to move, not even breathe, and then a slow, eager grin spreads across Potter’s mouth. With a frown Draco realises his hand is moving, of its own accord, towards the phial of scarlet potion. Try as he might, Draco is powerless against the debt his magic feels compelled to pay Potter. 

 

_ Damn.  _

 

The cork gives a small pop, and Draco’s head tilts back when the cold glass presses against his lips. Molasses thick and penetrating the potion slips down his throat, causing Draco immediate dizziness--as if it were a heady wine. His loose grip makes it easy for Potter to snatch the potion from his fingers. And Draco can hardly keep his grey eyes open to watch as Potter downs the rest of the bottle’s contents. 

  
  


_ I don’t pay attention to the  _

_ World ending. _

_ It has ended for me  _

_ Many times  _

_ And began again in the morning. _

  
  


Harry: 

 

Roses and ravens swim into his view, ornate carvings Harry’s never noticed in the ceiling, and he blinks slowly--trying to get the images to quit spinning. The light beyond the window is darkening, and all he knows for sure is that he’s missing hours. 

 

_ Malfoy, the potion, passing out. _

 

Harry sits up, stirring dust into the air from atop the thick carpets. He finds Malfoy shuffling in the chair--also coming back from induced sleep. Due to the sluggishness of his brain Harry takes a few moments to register that his potion failed. Malfoy is still blond and pointy. After glancing down at his hands Harry realises he too is unchanged. The scar on the back of his writing hand still vivid white in his golden skin. 

 

_ I must not tell lies.  _

 

“Potter,” Malfoy calls, voice groggy, and something in the sound causes Harry’s belly to squirm--a mix of discomfort and an itch he hasn’t felt in ages, desire. “Potter, I don’t think it worked.” Harry’s pulse quickens, ignited by the soft groan Malfoy emits. Raising his eyes to Malfoy’s face is a mistake--the effect of seeing Malfoy is visceral, and the only thing he can liken the sensation to is a giant reaching into his chest to crush his internal organs. The breath swoops out of his lungs and his heart beats so fast it feels as if it has stopped--dizzying Harry. 

 

He doesn’t realise he’s moving closer, until his hands are near enough to touch. Draco’s skin is electric, charging through Harry like lightning, and he cannot stop seeking more of the feeling. 

 

Then Malfoy’s fingers are on his cheek. Harry nearly comes from the intensity of his reaction to the energy of Draco’s touch. 

 

“Potter,” Malfoy murmurs--it sounds like an invitation. 

  
  


Draco:

 

Potter’s mouth on his is fire on ice. Melting Draco into a puddle of nothing as he spills out of his chair, onto the dirty carpets, beneath Potter’s looming form. When their eyes catch, Draco’s heart begins pumping faster--he can hear the roar of blood rushing in his ears and lightheadedness causes his balance to falter. Before he can hit the ground, Potter’s strong grip catches him around the bicep--digging into lithe muscle hard enough to leave marks. 

 

Draco should reprimand him, moves to do so, but his words die on a moan. “Potter,” he begs, unsure of what he’s asking. However, Potter seems to know. He bends closer, lips smashing against Draco’s--raw violence and need. “Potter,” he gasps, mouth stinging when Potter pulls away. Coppery tang dancing over his tastebuds when Draco swipes his tongue across his bottom lip. “Do it again,” he commands, voice dropping into the realm of sultry; eyes going half-lidded. 

 

He doesn’t need much persuading. Potter invades him like a war Draco’s unprepared for, and Draco surrenders before the first battle truly begins. Potter’s name the white flag he waves while sun-kissed fingers remove his clothes.  

 

There is something he should say, something he should remember, but the force between them drives rationality to the far corner of Draco’s mind. His vision goes white when Potter gets a hand around his cock. 

 

“Malfoy,” Potter makes his name sound like a prayer. 

 

Hours later, or maybe days, Draco rises from the fog of his lust. Coming out of his haze to his pale hips bruised, with the dark purple remnants of Potter’s fingers, and dried come flaking off between his thighs. 

 

“God,” Draco swallows, horrified as flashes of memory fill him. “Why? Why, Potter?” 

 

It is a cruel joke, woven by that foul whore Fate--a Malfoy and a Potter, bound together through the magic of a mutual love potion. 

 

_ Shit.  _

  
  


_ Desire is the kind of thing that _

_ Eats you _

_ And _

_ Leaves you starving. _

 

 

Harry: 

 

When he comes back to himself, Harry wakes with a horrible hangover like sensation. Malfoy’s agonised wail doesn’t help anything. Harry’s hands dig into the carpet, tacky grime clinging beneath his fingernails, and he roars for Malfoy to shut his fucking gob. “Shut the hell up, you insufferable shit.” Harry’s ire doesn’t quell Malfoy’s voice--if anything his words grow louder and more shrill. 

 

“Potter, you fucking imbecile,” Malfoy’s hands twist in Harry’s robes, his breath hot and sour from sleep. Even still Harry wants to swallow his everything when their eyes meet. Does so when Malfoy puts his mouth on Harry’s and kisses him like he’s starving for Harry’s tongue. As Malfoy pulls back, to breathe, he hisses, “Do you know what you’ve done?” The words tickling Harry’s stinging lips. 

 

Discomfort squirms in Harry’s stomach when Malfoy breaks before him--Harry’s drinks down his tears, compelled to bring him comfort, but it causes Malfoy to sob harder. “Potter,” his tone is cracking, “You ruined us.” 

 

Draco’s skin is covered in marks; snapshots of murky recollections remind Harry that he put those savageries in Malfoy. Furious red welts from the drag of Harry’s nails, whole moons shaped by the dig of Harry’s teeth, blooming bruises from the unrelenting grip of Harry’s hands. The image should horrify, but he’s intoxicated by the picture Draco paints. He needs more. 

 

“Malfoy,” his name becomes a command. Like a well trained bitch, Draco rolls to his stomach, panting--yet still fighting the desire. 

 

“You don’t mean it, Potter,” he whispers, lips catching the callouses on Harry’s fingertips. “You don’t want it,” he sighs out when Harry breaches his body with a slow, torturous thrust. 

  
  


Draco:

 

Hunger eats away at him, causing his stomach to growl and churn in discomfort. Draco cannot say how long he’s been in Potter’s ravenous hold. Each day the sun rises and falls, beyond the large sitting room window, but he’s lost count. His body is raw from the force of Potter’s lust. He’s certain he’s bleeding, can smell the metallic scent on the air--mingling with dust, stale sweat, and come. Thanks to Potter’s potion Draco draws the bouquet of it in, and savours it like expensive chocolate. 

 

Above him Potter appears skeletal. Draco wonders morbidly, if Potter dies will it cure Draco of this forced affliction. His heart seizes at the thought. Draco cannot breathe from the concept of a world without Potter. What irony; when he was a boy he would’ve cackled in glee while imagining Potter’s demise. Would’ve been thrilled with the notion that Potter would desire him so forcefully that it would cause all rationality to flee Potter--young, malicious Draco would’ve given the purity of his blood to watch this ruin. 

 

Not now. Not this Draco--he needs Potter the way the ocean needs the moon. 

 

With a trembling hand, Draco catches Potter against his beard rough cheek. His voice a choked whisper when he pleads, “Potter, Potter, come back to me.” 

 

Potter focuses on Draco once he’s come--and Draco is surprised he doesn’t collapse from lack of energy. “Malfoy,” he murmurs, confused, as he always seems when he first returns to his senses. “You look like,” Potter trails off, his green gaze turning slowly black as his eye travel Draco’s abused body. 

 

He’s so tired and his magic feels faint, but in desperation Draco reaches for it--hoping that something stops Potter before they both die upon this rotted floor. 

 

A crack of sound rips through the room, and Potter is thrown against the wall with startling force. Draco feels apologetic, until he gets a look at his body. The dead of St Mungo’s morgue look better than he does at the moment--less hammered, less damaged. 

 

“We need to talk,” Draco croaks, his voice fraying from all the screaming and moaning. 

  
  


_ You dizzy him,  _

_ You are unbearable  _

 

 

Harry:   
  


Everything is Malfoy. The itch in his skin, the pungent odour in his nose, the salt on his tongue. 

 

Pulling at his invisible bindings does nothing for him, and Harry growls--frustrated because he feels as if he’s boiling from the inside out. Malfoy is the balm that can soothe him. 

 

“Fucking hell,” Malfoy murmurs, kneeling beside Harry--a look of pity softening his tired eyes. “You’re a fright, Potter.” Harry hisses, in need when Malfoy touches his neck--fingers moving to smooth through his hair. 

 

“Let me out,” Harry’s words are like gravel. His throat burning and raw when he speaks.

 

“You have to eat.” Harry would’ve never imagined Malfoy could sound so sad while pleading. There’s a bottle Malfoy uncorks, and he touches the cool glass to Harry’s mouth--coaxing Harry to open up. When he does a bitter liquid slips down immediately into his belly. 

 

His stomach feels less empty, and Harry doesn’t have to ask to know that it’s a sustenance potion. “Why won’t you let me die?” He’s truly curious. 

 

“Because, you wretch, you’ve cursed me.” Draco’s mouth is poison when it presses to his--he seeps into Harry, invading everything, making him full of Malfoy. 

  
  


Draco:

 

The journal is made of fine dragonhide, dyed a beautiful emerald colour, and on its cover tarnished silver wands are crossed--emitting diamonds that sparkle like real magic. In the pages Draco finds secrets--family truths that his mother and father hinted at, but that Draco had always believed to be fables. Warnings about what happens when a son refuses to fall in line and do his duty. 

 

“A black rose, blooming beneath the glow of a full moon,” Draco murmurs, reading the along flowing script from a once elegant hand. “This is how my brother seduced me.” A heavy sigh leaves him when he closes the book cover, and Draco glances about the room--one that appears trapped in time. 

 

“Master Draco,” Kreacher appears in the doorway, bowing his wrinkled head. “Master Harry has eaten half his soup.” 

 

Tiredness settles into his bones, burdensome like an affliction he cannot escape, and Draco manages a sound of acknowledgement before he stands. He takes the diary with him as he steps from the room. Across the hall a tarnished plaque catches his eye,  _ S.O.B., _ the initials taunting--Draco swears he can hear a mad voice sing  _ I was the first ripple, the one that made the wave that broke the sea.  _

 

A ripple that is determined to take them all, it seems. 

 

Draco closes his eyes when Potter’s scream fills the house, sound ripping through his soul at the way Potter calls his name. “Draco,” it comes as a sacrament. 

  
  


_ His body just a long shadow seeking yours _

_ But you are always too intense _

_ Frightening in the way you want him  _

_ Unashamed and sacrificial  _

 

 

Harry:

 

He’s not sure how many days have passed. Yet, when lucid, Harry can tell his body is far thicker than it was when Malfoy first came to this dreary house. During that time Harry had grown to repel food, the taste of everything rotten--eventually he stopped trying. Some power compels him to open his mouth when Draco offers him food. Harry swallows it down, every flavour rich honey thanks to Draco’s touch, and he’s always hungry for more. 

 

Malfoy’s eyes are tragic when he utters, “Potter, you have to learn to fight it, please.”  

 

Harry doesn’t know what he’s supposed to fight--his mind feels broken. Freeing and frightening at once. All he knows for certain is that Malfoy is salvation. Malfoy’s presence fixing the emptiness--filling Harry with emotions he’s locked away. A baptism that washes off the sins of Harry’s past, and makes him new. Worthy. 

Grinning, boyish and bright, Harry moves his arm--happy that his bonds are loose--and grabs Draco by the hair. Pulls their mouths together. In Malfoy’s kiss he finds clarity. His tea flavoured tongue brings Harry back to the world. “What is going on,” he demands, teeth a threatening press on Malfoy’s lower lip. 

 

“You fucked up your potion, Potter.” It’s almost humorous the way Malfoy grinds against Harry while he spits angry words into Harry’s mouth. 

 

“Explain,” Harry commands--reaching beneath Malfoy’s robe to get his hand on Draco’s cock. 

  
  


Draco:

 

Potter’s face is placid when Draco tells him it’s been three months--months that felt like an endless lifetime spent nursing a wailing Potter back to health. Cups of steaming tea go untouched on the ancient table between them. Potter has his chin resting in his palm, eyes broodily watching the moving hands of the grandfather clock. Draco feels himself going mad as it tick, tick, ticks. 

 

“Is there a remedy,” Potter finally enquires, when the air is stagnant with oppressive silence. 

 

“None that I’ve found,” Draco admits, bleak and despairing. 

 

“Death would cure it,” his tone is too light--Potter’s expression revealing nothing. 

 

“Except that the thought of you dying fills me with such despair I might as well die, too,” Draco is honest. How can he not be when he knows Potter, too, senses Draco deeply. They are linked now, two souls made one. Sirius’s scrawl at the bottom of the potion was not wrong--together they have become someone else. 

 

“You’re not allowed to die,” Potter’s eyes are full of conviction, his words severe and Draco knows the thought of Draco dying is something he could never forgive. Potter values Draco more than himself, and the thought of being so revered makes Draco lightheaded. 

 

“Then live, Potter, and so shall I,” Draco commands. 

 

Thumping his head back against the chair’s headrest, Potter mutters, “What a fucking mess.” 

  
  


_Every woman before or after you_

_Is doused in your name_

_You fill his mouth_

_His teeth ache with memory of taste_

  
  


Harry: 

 

Sirius’s diary is hidden in a loose board beneath the bed he occupied through childhood, and in it Harry finds a madness he did not know lived in his godfather. A darkness that hid, tucked into the crevices of false smiles. 

 

_ I try to escape the hold of my lust, but every thought is Regulus. Every taste his tongue--even as I witness other flesh, I see only the white skin that haunts me in memory. Father can chase me from our home for my treachery, but he cannot chase me from the depths of Regulus’s soul.  _

 

_ Do you feel me, my love, as I fuck this lowly creature? My nails are in your skin, my teeth digging into your flesh, my essence invading you as only I can. Do you taste me in other mouths? Do you cry my name when others hold you?  _

 

He drops the leather book, as if it offends his hand--burns him with the truth. “Fuck,” Harry whispers, sliding to the floor, burying his face in his hands, “Sirius, I trusted you.” 

 

When the hour grows late, after Draco forced him to eat by promising Harry a taste of his cock, Harry picks the diary up again--turning to a later entry. Soul heavy with the burden of a truth he never wanted as he reads down the page. 

 

_ It is cruel to die without really dying. There is no word that can describe the depth of this empty. My heart stopped the moment yours did...and yet, it keeps beating. Only now it is a half heart, a shattered heart. Did you know you would become a chasm, Lover? Did you hope for my pain? Is this my penance for bringing you to ruin? I will not apologise, Regulus, for the love I’ve always felt. I will not regret binding you to me, no matter the consequences. If this is my punishment then so be it.  _

 

Harry hastily hides Sirius’s confessions away when Draco comes to find him. His body singing for Draco’s touch the minute Harry’s eyes fall on where he stands in the lit doorway. “Bed, Potter,” it is a question, more than a command but Harry follows the words as if they were an order written in blood. 

 

“There was another Owl for you,” Malfoy hums against Harry’s short beard. “Looks like it’s Granger again.” 

 

“Leave it,” Harry sighs, pressing Draco against the wall of Sirius’s old room--the one plastered with faded rock posters. Some dead star watching, dark eyes frozen open, as Harry takes Draco with the same passion of a memorable guitar solo.  

 

 

Draco:

 

Potter’s muscle thick arms are a warm comfort around his slim waist when Draco rouses from a light slumber. His long fingers brush the lightning shape of Potter’s scar, admiring the worry-free face Potter wears in sleep. Draco wonders if this will be forever--him and Potter locked in decaying walls, living for a consuming lust. 

 

He wonders about his cousins, cursed with the same obsession. Then from beneath his musty, flat pillow Draco pulls out Regulus’s book of private thoughts. The ones that connect them, even in death.

 

_ I have never known a love as deep as the one I know for Sirius. Mother has gone grey, screams herself raw trying to convince herself that it is all the potion. It’s not. We’ve all read the words, we know the potion had to attach itself to a feeling that was already there--one that was suppressed, constantly denied. Father and Mother blame Sirius, of course. But I know my hand was not forced. Afterall, it was my hand that made the brew. And I was the first to swallow the poison, glad to have an excuse to touch the skin of my beloved. At long last.  _

 

Draco closes his eyes, resting his head against the words he wishes he could unsee. They confirm his suspicions; the ones that nagged at the back of his mind when he came to, with Potter’s markings decorating his skin, that first time. Mutual love potions are do not exist, because love potions are typically brewed by a party who already loves--or at least desires--the potion’s intended drinker. Love potions wear off, they are never long term and must be administered frequently. Their potency is shallow. The effects of this potion are not waning. Draco is as drawn to Potter as he was the moment that damned brew slipped down his throat. 

 

Even when sated he is starved for Potter. The desire is theirs. All the potion did was bring it forth, and bind them for as long as they have breath. Draco is almost amused, they could’ve been fucking for ages--had they admitted what the animosity between them was. The obsession they both denied. 

 

Maybe, if they had, Draco could have been there for Potter. Emotionally. Physically. Could’ve kept him from the depressed recesses of his mind and could’ve kept him from the madness he inflicted upon them. Though, if he’s honest, he knows it would’ve never been that simple. Draco is aware that nothing is allowed to come easy for either of them. That is another curse they share. 

 

A letter, folded tightly between the pages of Regulus’s inner thoughts, catches Draco’s attention. Quietly as he can, Draco pulls it open. Detecting a rich scent that time hasn’t managed to wash away. 

 

_ My immortal beloved, my all, my shared soul,  _

 

_ I write this letter, though I have no heart to send it. I cannot kill you more than I already have, than I will with the knowledge of why I must go to my death. For you, Sirius, for you to live I will forsake myself. Without question, always. Know that I did not leave you willingly, but if there was a world without you I would wither. Perhaps I am the coward you’ve always claimed to see. Of us both, dearest lover, you are the one who can live on. You’ve other reasons, other loves that can fuel you in my absence. They may not consume the way I did, but they will keep you happy. Your mates, that baby of Potter’s that I know you adore. In a perfect world, my brother, we would be born to less tragic circumstances. We would be happy, we would live on together in peace. _

_ I will wait for you. At the gates of hell and in the fire, I will smile knowing that you are worth every last damnation.  _

 

_ Forever yours,  _

_ Regulus _

“Draco,” Potter’s velvety voice is urgent when he tilts Draco’s face towards his. His chapped lips catching the tears that fall off of Draco’s pale lashes. “What hurts?” 

 

“Everything,” he replies, broken yet whole. 

  
  


_ We need to share our wars.  _

  
  


Harry:

 

Ron comes to him the night Hermione brings Ron’s firstborn into existence. He’s a fury Homer could never dream. Terrifying and proud when he bursts forth from the flames. “You,” his voice is low, dangerous in ways Harry remembers from another life. A life where they shared a war, as brothers.

 

This one, Harry thinks, they will share as enemies. 

 

Freckled fingers wrap themselves in the front of Harry’s shirt, hauling him closer to Ron’s snarling face. “I stood by you in the darkest hours, Harry, and you fuck off when I need you.”

 

“While you were off playing house, I was rotting here,” Harry reminds with a hiss. His hands fisting in Ron’s shirt while Ron shoves him against the crumbling mantle. 

 

“Whose fault was that?” The shout demands an explanation from Harry, but he has none. No excuse is worthy of Ron’s forgiveness. An endless well of love that Harry took for granted--one that he now fears has run dry. The horror that fills him is shocking, swiftly replacing the anger that burned in response to Ron’s venom filled rage. 

 

Since Draco, since their shared poison, Harry’s been feeling things. Horrible, awful emotions he locked away during all the funerals where he did not weep. Now they come--rushing forth, filling his eyes. Ron’s hold on him slackens when Harry cries, as he never has before anyone. His hands cling to Ron, desperate, drawing him closer as Harry buries his face in Ron’s warm chest. “I’m so sorry,” he sounds like agony. 

 

“Harry,” Ron deflates in the presence of such wretchedness. The fury swooping out of him, quickly replaced by concern. “What’s wrong?” 

 

His answer is more sobbing, words incoherent due to the press of his face against Ron’s shirt. Harry goes boneless, falling to the dirty floor while still grasping at Ron--Ron who bends down with him. Like a father cradling a broken son.  

 

And so the hours pass like that, Harry expelling all the emotions he’s denied himself. All the grief he hid from in this hell. Ron continuously patting his hair, shushing him like a small child.

 

When Harry is exhausted and his tears have run dry they sit in silence, a bottle of gin between them. “It’s a girl you know,” Ron finally says, after a swig from the bottle Harry holds out to him. 

 

“You sound proud,” Harry smiles, genuinely happy at the news, then takes a drink for himself. 

 

“Of course, she’s going to be the best Quidditch player Gryffindor House has ever seen,” there’s a teasing tilt to Ron’s tone. One that makes Harry chuckle and wonder why he denied himself this--he’s missed the camaraderie. Ron knocks shoulders with him, his eyes flitting to the stairwell, then back to Harry. “Want to tell me about the git that’s been checking on us, ever so often?” 

 

His chuckle cracks, worried and amused at once. “I’ve been shagging him,” he tries for cocky but fails, stumbling over a startled laugh when Ron pulls a face. 

 

“Please spare me those details,” Ron blinks, snatching the bottle from Harry to have another drink. Then after a beat, “Hermione will expect you to bring him round for a proper introduction.” Harry releases the anxious breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Nodding, promising that he will. And soon.

 

 

Draco: 

 

Potter is a marvel. Like a moth that has undergone metamorphosis beneath Draco’s keen eye. He stands in the doorway of Number Twelve with a proud spine, a glowing grin that is soft peach--his lips no longer chapped white. His cheeks are tanned in the places where thick beard once roamed free, and the hollow set of his eyes is gone. Forgotten like snow in spring. His limbs are thick, muscled in the ways Draco fantasised about during school. On those private nights, when he'd allow himself to think about the way Potter’s thighs held his glossy Firebolt between them. 

 

“Coming,” he enquires, hand stretched toward Draco--fingers a siren’s call to Draco’s senses. 

 

The rusting mirror, in the front corridor, catches Draco’s attention. Pausing before the once ornate glass Draco realises Potter isn't the only one who has transformed. The constant dark smudges are gone from beneath Draco's eyes, his skin is pale but no longer sallow--he's the image of health, long gone is the shroud of palpable misery. 

 

A slow smile reveals his dimples, and crinkles the skin around his eyes with joy. 

 

“Draco,” Potter beckons, and he goes. 

  
  


_ I dropped my pride  _

_ In the gulf of your mouth. _

_ And  _

_ I do not know how to swim. _

 

 

Harry:

 

Doubt wrinkles Harry’s brow, and he can feel the frown form as he looks upon this monstrosity of a manor house that this strange little wizard brought them to. “He said a _ small  _ chateau,” Harry reminds Draco. Entirely uncomfortable and out of his element. 

 

“It is small,” Malfoy replies, his tone snotty--as it had been in school--heavy with the indication that he believes Harry to be uncouth. “What sort of life do you want Teddy to have? We aren’t raising him a barn like hovel--leave that to Weasley’s family. Let them muck up their young.” He stops Malfoy with a hard grip around Malfoy’s slender--almost delicate--wrist. A nearly invisible blond eyebrow arches at him, and they share a silent exchange. One that ends with Draco’s soft mouth quirking in victory. To the excitable old Wizard Malfoy calls, “We’re dying to have a look inside.” 

 

Helpless Harry follows them inside. Marble as far as the eye can see, gleaming in the sunlight-- floors warming in the rays, filling this large home with their fresh lemon scent. Harry wanders the openness of the rooms, hands trailing over glossy, cold stonework. His mind motions through scenarios, imagining them here. Teddy giggling as a Crup licks his face, childish drawings scattered over Draco’s expensive rug while Malfoy lounges about--a prince on a priceless sofa. Harry didn’t know he could want this so much. Family has always seemed a foreign, unattainable concept. 

 

“Potter,” Malfoy calls from the kitchen, and Harry feels the name like a caress. Everything about Malfoy is still electric. When he finds them, Harry has to work to restrain himself from having Draco over the sparkling stone counter--in front of a stranger. The desire is engrossing, but Harry’s trained himself to be stronger than his constant appetite. Malfoy’s grey eyes are at half-mast, his grin smug and Harry is certain he can feel Harry’s restraint. The force of Harry’s lust makes Malfoy believe himself to be invincible, and Harry won’t admit it, ever--but to him Draco is a god. 

 

“Pay the man,” Draco commands, waving a hand for Harry to hurry. Expecting that Harry will cater to every whim without question. “I want to have your Weasley bring our boxes before nightfall.” 

 

For a moment, Harry debates telling Draco ‘no’ just to see him flounder in surprise. He doesn’t. Won’t. Can’t. Because his love for Malfoy is greater than his pride, terrifying as that seems, and Harry will swallow every last ounce of himself to see Draco happy. Harry’s greatest pleasure is giving Malfoy joy as he’s never known it. 

 

So if a monstrous house, carved into the rocky wall of an empty French paradise, is what Malfoy wants then Harry will drown his misgivings. Harry will rage whatever war he must to see that Draco has what he wants. 

 

He pulls out his book of cheques, and with an annoyed expression asks the grinning, little Wizard before him if he has a quill. 

 

 

Draco:

 

“Did you ever want children,” Potter enquires, one night--when they are wrapped around one another, naked against a fur rug--and Draco regards him with suspicion; wondering if this is some sort of trick question. 

 

“I suppose I did,” Draco finally admits, when he realises Potter wants a genuine answer. There’s an intensity in his green eyes that warms Draco’s skin more than a fire ever could. 

 

“What changed,” Potter leans closer, his eyes glowing from the dancing light of flame, that flickers from the hearth behind Draco’s head. 

 

“I changed,” Draco sighs, sitting up to fetch tea and whiskey from the tray Kreacher left for them. Trying to prolong the inevitable scorch from Potter’s touch. “It was a change for the better.”

 

“You’re certain?” His firm fingers grasp Draco’s chin, commanding his gaze back to Potter’s. 

 

Finally Draco admits, “No, I’m not certain.” His lips catch against Potter’s, and he can taste sweet devotion on the almost kiss. “Assure me,” he begs, pride gone with the swipe of Potter’s tongue. Thirsty kisses drinking the sweat that drips down his spine when Potter has him on his knees--fingers in Draco’s mouth, conquering his reason while he drowns in the taste of salt. 

 

 

_ Your mother may _

_ Never return from war _

_ But _

_ You will see her every day _

  
  


Harry:

 

Eyes of the deepest green greet him every dawn--the colour of emeralds, serpents, and instant death. His mother’s irises a blessing and a curse. He wonders, in those lonely hours--when Draco’s skin is not consuming his mind--if she is proud of what Harry’s become. A recluse locked away in a gilded palace, with the last two people he’d have ever chosen to share life’s adventure. 

 

A nemesis and a son that is not truly his. 

 

“Potter,” Draco calls, rousing from the place where they sleep but never fuck.  _ Fuck me anywhere but bed, _ Draco’s command and Harry never breaks his oath. 

 

Teddy stirs next to Draco, wiggling as he mumbles in his sleep. “What time is it,” he yawns, sitting up--hair pale like Malfoy’s and face just as pointy. 

 

“Still dark,” Harry informs with a content grin, making his way back to the warmth of Draco’s prefered blankets. Crawling into bed, beside Draco--with his arm pillowed under Draco’s head and his hand patting Teddy’s hair--feels like coming home, the way Hogwarts did when Harry was young. Only better, more permanent. 

 

Teddy’s eyes open, brilliant green, the same shade as Harry’s and his expression goes soft when he leans over Draco, pressing a brief kiss to Teddy’s hair, “Go back to bed, son.” When he glances at Draco he finds that his face is adoring, kind in ways Harry never expected he could be. 

 

_ Mum, I’ve found where I belong. _

 

 

Draco:

 

Teddy is Potter’s life story wearing Potter’s eyes and Draco’s mouth, Narcissa’s nose and Potter’s chin, and the Malfoy family’s pale hair. As the years grow in number this never fails to humble Draco. His son that is not his, but is more Draco’s and Potter’s than he will ever be Lupin’s or Dora’s. 

 

“How will you spend your days when I’m gone,” Teddy enquires, a pout on his lips as they ready him for bed. His first train ride to school comes with the morning, and Draco is loathe to admit that the thought of tomorrow fills him with heartbreak.

 

“I will spend all my days in mourning,” Draco assures, knowing--better than Teddy--that his words are true. 

 

“Will you write?” His fear is apparent in the lines of his honest, young face. 

 

“Even if my fingers break, I will use my teeth to write you,” he speaks the words like a solemn vow. Teddy grins, reassured even though Draco’s words are morbid. He presses a kiss to Teddy’s hair, then leaves him to his sleep. Silently wishing for his dreams to be sweet. 

 

In bed Potter is up reading, his glasses low on his nose, candlelight throwing shadows over him--darkness hiding in all the edges Draco longs to be.  _ How will I spend these days without Teddy,  _ Draco wonders, while a smile blooms over his mouth.

 

Knowing full well that he will spend months wrapped in Potter’s arms, starving for his touch. 

  
  


_ Loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same. _

  
  
  
  



End file.
